Disappear
by 10111993
Summary: Due to timing conflicts, this story is now suspended.
1. Chapter 1

"Dispatch, this is one-oh-seven-oh-eight calling in, we have an accident off of Hiawatha Trail, Copy."

"Copy that, one-oh-seven-oh-eight. Sending an ambulance over."

_Crackle, hisssssssssssss._

The late afternoon sunlight reflected off the nose of the Crown Victoria as it came to a bumpy halt, pulling off onto the dusty rise that the narrow ledge barely afforded. The patrolman climbed out of the vehicle with a sigh, levering himself into the heat with a palm pressed gingerly on the hot, metal door. Goddamn day to have an accident, although Officer Riley couldn't blame them. The sun was so blinding that even with sunglasses he'd had trouble driving himself. There had been calls in over the county on what was becoming one of the hottest days in April record. Even for California, the mercury usually didn't rise above the hundred mark for another month or so at minimum. Today, however, the thermometer read a whopping one hundred and fifteen.

_Lord Almighty,_ the patrolman thought, _today is going to be a 'long day._ Already, the patrolman's lightweight uniform was sticking to him, the colloquial beige cotton offering only a slight reprieve from the usual navy wear. Chewing his gum, he stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned over the slight bluff of the roadside, eyes and mouth hidden behind Aviators and a trimmed mustache. Hiawatha Trail wound up the only dub-able mountain in the San Antonio area, cresting at only a thousand feet. Still, there were a number of fatalities each year. This was beginning to look like one of them, and Officer Riley trudged resignedly back to his vehicle with a heavy heart. He'd never liked finding those kids, there was just something about the young bodies that was…disturbing. Twenty years of service, and he still couldn't put a name to it.

"Dispatch, this is one-oh-seven-oh-eight at Hiawatha again; we've got a blue Prius overturned here…."

_Eight hours earlier_

"Yes, Larry, I know I said that - Look…" The twenty four year old mathematician ran a hand frustratedly through his black curls, gripping the back of his head in a vice lock as he fought to level the impatience in his voice. "Listen, yeah, yeah, I know I promised to help you on that article, but something just came up - yeah, I don't know for sure but I can't tell you right now, I'm sorry," Charlie sighed, understanding his friend's agitation but racked with his own anxieties. Larry murmured something over the phone, and Charlie smiled in relief. "Thanks, Larry. I'll call you later….." Larry said something else, but Charlie had already hung up, distracted by the large rectangular envelope sitting on the dining room table. Leaving the kitchen, he strode over to the package and read the address, eyes once again distracted by the red words blazoned across the front in ink: WARNING, PRIVATE INFORMATION FOR THIS INDIVIDUAL **ONLY**. ANYONE WHO OPENS OR TAMPERS WITH THIS ENVELOPE WITHOUT PERMISSION CAN AND WILL BE SENTENCED IN THE COURT OF LAW FOR VIOLATION OF FEDERAL PRIVACY LAWS.

It had come in the mail that morning, an otherwise perfectly innocuous yellow business envelope that sat innocently wedged in the mailbox. Charlie was grateful his father hadn't found it, or there would have been a lot of questions that he would rather avoid. Having to explain to Alan why he, a tenured math professor at a prestigious university, was getting mail from the government was one thing, but it was quite another to tell him that his second born had also gotten involved in government consulting work. Let him worry enough about Don - he was fine throwing out vague locations for his "lectures," and letting the attention slide off of him. Lord knew that Alan fussed about Charlie enough _God, what am I doing?_ Charlie suppressed a groan and let his head rest in his hand for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefingers. A headache was rapidly forming. _I feel like I'm living two lives, a spy. _No, Charlie thought firmly, Don was doing the spy work, his jock brother who had joined the FBI a little over two years ago. All he did or would ever do was crunch numbers, determining velocity of bullets from crime scenes and educated approximations of stockpiles. That was all. He wanted nothing to do with the actual raids or visits, even for the purposes of calculations. _I may be a tenured professor, _Charlie thought dryly, _but the government seems to conveniently forget I'm only twenty four. _

Wiping his hands again on the plaid shirt he had thrown on over his usual white tank, the curly headed genius headed to the kitchen, conveniently avoiding the rectangular problem that lay flat on his table. Rubbing his nose in concentration, Charlie ignored the calculations running through his mind and instead grabbed the container of bacon. Those tangerines might have offered faster metabolization of energy, but, well, he wanted bacon. _Perfectly justifiable,_ Charlie mentally argued, running through Game Theory as he peeled the meat out of its packaging. The sound of sizzling grease was cut off as he shut the oven door, and leaned on the counter edge for a moment.

The first time, they had sent agents in person. _Grover and Waterford, if I'm remembering correctly._ Two tall, buff guys in suits, casually letting the side of their jackets brush open to reveal sidearms as they retrieved their ID's, had strolled into his office with only a cursory knock. That had only been a year and a half ago. Since then, the NSA had recruited him for numerous other cases, utilizing his expertise in physical appicable mathematics (with hyperbolic equations in one case), numerical analysis, and combinetrics among other, less defined applications of his genius. Charlie had learned to recognize that it was his ability to think discretely that had aided him over and over again.

With a sigh, Charlie pushed himself off the counter and left the kitchen again, heading towards the garage. _If I keep the door open, I'll be able to hear the timer,_ Charlie reminded himself. Head already spilling over with ideas for expanding his cognitive emergence work, he almost didn't catch the movement out the living room window. It was just the slightest blur at the edge of his vision, the smallest streak of grey, but Charlie's head turned even as he took another step forward. It took a moment for his mind to catch up to what he had seen, but when it did, he froze, staring out the glass.

"Oh shit."


	2. Chapter 2

_I8419716939937510582097494459230781640628620899862 80348253421170679 _

_ 82148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128 48111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038196 _

_ 44288109756659334461284756482337867831652712019091 45648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273 _

_ 72458700660631558817488152092096282925409171536436 7892590360011330530548820466521384146951941511609_

The numbers ran through Charlie's head in a forced continuum as he frantically dug through his closet. His breath was coming short, and he was having difficulty concentrating on even the numbers. The tiny, repressed part of him that was screaming at his inefficient behavior, his fear directed flailing that only threw his closet into further disarray, was currently locked down by a flight response that roared through his ears and flickered at the edge of his vision. With a sudden relapse in his panic, he shoved himself away from the door until he leaned back against the foot of his bed, counting a slow three before letting his breath out. His hands shook uncontrollably, but his intellect sharpened considerably and began to analyze the situation as Charlie forced his body into submission for the second time. Now was not the time to lose himself to irrationality, despite the uncertainty that clouded his thoughts and actions. Such a situation would only end with him lying on the bedroom floor, and _not _for a nap either. There were no shrouds of doubt about what would happen if he wasn't out of the house in the next few minutes. Five minutes, and he would be in the kitchen. Seven he would be at the staircase. Eight he would be walking down the hall, footsteps padding softly so that the mathematician would only be aware of his closet when he died. Ten, he would be dead.

Re-grouping himself, Charlie began to methodically pick clothes out from his closet. A navy polo, a white long sleeve, a couple grey tees, and a sweatshirt were folded and placed neatly, albeit quickly, in a green duffel that sat wrinkled and unused on the edge of the bed. The biggest problem was that Charlie had no idea how long he was going to be gone. Don might have known…but Don was not there. And Charlie desperately wanted him to be. He would know exactly what to do. Perhaps, he might not even have to leave - if there was more time, time to get to a more secure place (in the FBI headquarters, preferably, and with his brother). But no. A larger part of him argued the sentiment away. Charlie had no delusions about his own abilities as far as running went. An attempt to run away at twelve had lasted all of four hours and Charlie was sure that Bill would have a much easier time than his brother had in finding him. No, there was no way he would be able to get to the FBI headquarters in time. One percent. That was the percent of victims that had survived. Even working with the NSA, just exactly how he had done it had eluded them. All electronic and manual methods of tracking had been gone over. There had never been any purchases, no robberies nearby, no reappearing cars or elusively dressed men, no hacking, and no personal relationship with the victims. Charlie had exhausted all the variables he had been able to come up with, and yet it had still not been enough. Yet the data still indicated he was missing something, and his math had never been wrong before. He had tried dozens of approaches, equations, and yet there was no discernible pattern. Even applying the inverse equation had led to the same conclusions. The random statistics were just that: random. Not too random, and not predictable. The young mathematician, however, held a deeply rooted conviction that there was a reason (or reasons for each crime) driving the violence, a reason perhaps the man was not even consciously aware of himself. The only problem was, there was no indication of any mental illness or behavioral abnormality of any kind. And with that, the investigation had turned cold.

With a zip, the the last of his pants were thrown into the bag and the zipper closed. The turquoise bag sat limply on the queen bed and white sheets, waiting. Charlie looked at it for a minute, trying to absorb his room, a part of the house, somehow into himself, an act that felt eerily final. Then he swallowed convulsively and gripped the handles. Tossing on a baseball cap Don had given him years ago, he slipped quickly down the stairs, looking carefully at the mirror in the front hall. The glass reflected an empty backyard, green leaves rippling silently on an ash in an afternoon breeze. Charlie tiptoed down the hallway into the garage, carefully shutting the door behind him. Fumbling in the dark, he lit a match, flinching at the quiet hiss, and walked quietly over to a door that was almost hidden between overflowing shelves of junk. He looked at them ruefully. He really should have listened to his dad, a few weeks back. He had no idea it had gotten this bad. When - if- he got back, he would make sure to clean the garage. Swiping a hand through his curls, moist with sweat, he leaned down, trying the lock. The door, hidden between overflowing shelves that he was grateful for at the moment, had not been opened in years. Now, it would open up behind overgrown vines, vines that Charlie had also conveniently forgotten to get rid of. He'd have to try that argument against his dad when he got back. Despite himself, Charlie flashed a grin, which quickly faded as unwanted thoughts crept through his head. Breath puffing hotly back into his face as he stuck his nose next to the lock, Charlie hoped beyond hope that it had not rusted shut. It appeared to be unlocked, and Charlie reached out, grabbing the handle. Then the unmistakable sound of footsteps emerged, stepping onto the cold, concrete foundation of the garage.

"Hello, Charlie. Nice to see you again." The voice was dry and deep, for all the world the same as any other person on the street.

14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510 582097

"Come now, Charlie, don't be unreasonable. Come and greet me, so we can talk. I haven't seen you in awhile." Silence.

_ 44288109756659334461284756482337867831652712019091 45648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273 -_

"I'd expected you to be more reasonable about this. You are a mathematician, after all, surely you know the outcome already." This time, the silence was punctuated by a heavy sigh.

Charlie choked back the urge to cry.

"Well, I guess I'll just have to do this the hard way." Even through the darkness, Charlie could see the smile. He liked this, liked the chase. By way of the echo of the disembodied voice, Charlie had triangulated it's owner. Bill was standing just inside the doorway still.

This was it.

It was now or never.

Charlie felt strangely detached from his body, lightweight and ethereal. Even as his hand tightened over the handle, the world had weird distortedness to it, as if the oxygen had turned to water, pressing tightly against him as his body moved.

Even with his eyes squeezed shut, white light exploded against his eyes as a shot roared through the silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Well, this isn't turning out the way I hoped exactly. I just can't seem to write it as well as I want to. Oh well. Anyway, this chapter is quite short, just a sort of short relief to the tension.

Don waited in the car silently, suppressing all the pent of turmoil from exploding into words he would regret. The steely expression masked an anger which boiled in him, anger towards the NSA, who had brought all of this on, anger (though he knew it was unjustified, when given thought to all the risks) at Charlie for not contacting them, anger at the FBI, which had been shoved rudely from the case, invariably angry at everyone sitting next to him in the black SUV. It was an all-encompassing anger that hid a deeper worry, and even a spark of amusement. His brother had managed to out-wit a man that had been wanted by every sector of the government. Maybe he had to reconsider who was the real FBI agent in the family. He was angry, definitely. There were a lot of questions to be answered, by a lot of people, whether they wanted to or not. He would be damned sure of that. But despite himself, he found he was proud.

"Look." Megan's finger broke his concentration even before her voice did. Don only had to snap a glance up to recognize the slight frame silhouetted against an ambulance. The man appeared to be holding duffel bag on his lap, and was wearing a baseball cap with sunglasses. He was sitting on the edge of the parked vehicle, talking to an agent. Beneath all of the anger, and entwined with the swelling pride in his chest, a dam finally cracked inside of him and let loose a wave of finally fulfilled hope and relief that crashed thunderously through his body.

It felt as though the the air had suddenly turned to water.


End file.
